


martyrs wrapped in butcher paper

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, Fluff, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Romance, Silence of the Lambs easter egg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21603103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes it’s as if Will only catches glimpses of him, even when their eyes meet.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50





	martyrs wrapped in butcher paper

_“My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears. You are my home, do you not understand?”_

_— Amy Lowell, “The Fruit Garden Path,”_

“We could disappear now. Tonight. Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana and never see her or Jack again."

It’s a tempting offer. To hell with Jack, with Alana, with Freddie Lounds and everyone else who has ever shunned him. He could leave them all behind, live the rest of his life in France, or Italy, or the outskirts of some equally lavish foreign country. Could he live a life of human flesh— human meat? Of the polite façade worn by the man sitting across from him? Knowing that he could never come back, that he could never again wade into a familiar river or breathe the air of Virginia?

Truthfully, he can imagine it.

He thinks maybe he could.

The lighting of Hannibal’s dining room still haunts his skull: the memory of a church to the mind of a heathen, or the funeral pyre of a dead man to his murderer. Something raw, something that lies heavy on his chest. Voracious, but not quite unwelcoming. What sticks to the concave within his head is not the words spoken or the food eaten, but the flickering of warm firelight on pale skin and the smell of burning paper.

The memory adheres no comfort— it’s worth lies in its weight as a turning point.

Leaving was a blur. Choosing what to take wasn’t all that hard, as Will has never held much sentimentality for the past, and he can easily imagine the items in his home aging without feeling remorse. He eventually settles on taking minimal indulgences— a photo of his father, torn at the edges. A framed drawing of a river he got at the flea market when he was 19. Clothes, mostly uninteresting, light ones— Hannibal told him that there would be little need for thick coats or warm jackets where they were going. A measly wad of dollar bills. After a second thought he folds a photo of his dog who died two years ago of old age and shoves it into his wallet. This is all he chooses to bring with him, this is all he recognizes.

Dealing with the living dogs is harder. He sets out an abundance of food, an extra bowl of water, and leaves the now near-empty bag of dog food on a shelf that the larger ones could knock down if they really needed to. He scrawls a note for Alana on a torn piece of paper and slips it under the dog food, peaking out just enough to be noticed. It feels too informal. Messy handwriting on notebook paper— a rather unceremonious way to say goodbye.

The forest surrounding his house tugs at his heart as he walks away from it. He can hear the dogs barking mournfully, confusedly. He shuts his eyes. It isn’t his anymore. It doesn’t belong to him.

Will slips into the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car, engulfed in the warmth of the heater, safe in the womb. He shoves his bag and his suitcase into the backseat, and slumps.

He wonders if he can tell what the earth beneath them feels as they pull out of the driveway. He wonders if he’s imagining its relief, if he’s imagining the long-held breath the soil lets out as he leaves. What burden might he have left on the ground he walked upon?

Will convinces Hannibal to downgrade to middle-class seating on their flight out of Virginia. Jack would surely look at high-class tickets first. He doesn’t ask how Hannibal has the money or the means, only appreciates that he does, and that he eventually concedes to a downgrade. The airport corner they sit in for five hours beforehand is cold and uncomfortable, but out of sight, and adequately retrospective. Will dozes, legs on hannibal’s lap, leaning against his beat-up suitcase and listening to the occasional announcements, which echo out of a nearby loudspeaker. Hannibal reads, quietly, book balanced on Will’s ankles. It isn’t uncomfortable, just a little more peaceful than Will is used to.

He can’t help but wonder if this is what he has to look forward to— quiet moments on a couch, warm expressions, a feeling of contentment nestled in his ribcage. While casual to most, the idea of such occurrences make Will’s stomach twist. It is a type of intimacy that he has little experience with, never having had it clutched in his hands for long enough.

Yet, he thinks, he wants it. He wants moments of quiet with the figure beside him. Because that’s what Hannibal is— a figure; not a man. 

Sometimes it’s as if Will only catches glimpses of him, even when their eyes meet. 

They arrive at a gentle-looking farmhouse tucked on the edges of Tuscany three days after leaving Wolf Trap. The air is a warm breath on Will’s face, and though the setting’s romantic sentiment sends a wash of nausea through his abdomen, it immediately wraps arms of comfort around his mind.

The house is nothing special, to most. It appears dramatically larger than Will’s cabin in Wolf Trap, but much less put together. Its walls are dark brown raw wood and the lawn is long, unmown, freckled with thistley yellow flowers. The nearest populated town is an hour away, past at least a solid half-hour of thick forest and badly-paved road. He can smell sunlight and dirt and Will can’t help but fall a little in love with it.

Hannibal, on the other hand, looks at it almost sourly, and Will chuckles.

“Not up to your standards?”

He doesn’t reply, but opens the door of their hastily rented car— a mess of technology that doesn’t match its surroundings and an indulgence on Hannibal’s part— and walks stoutly toward the house with a jingling keyring in his left hand. Will reaches back, grabs both their suitcases as well as the smaller bag Hannibal insisted on bringing, and hurries to catch up with him. Hannibal, too, looks out of place here, just like the car. Slick and silver and disdainful, not at all warm or peaceful. It’s something of an odd sight, too, to see such a beast in a habitat other than the dark forest that grows in Will’s skull, or the deep ocean that laps at his stomach when he sleeps.

“How long will be here?”

Hannibal throws him a knowing glance as he unlocks the front door. “A few weeks, at most. As long as it takes to find somewhere suitable closer to the city.”

“Not too close though, right?” It’s a snarky response, even for Will, but he can’t help it. He hates the prospect of city life without respite.

“Not too close.” Hannibal concedes. 

The door creaks— aches— as it opens. The house’s innards smell old. It reminds Will of the house he’d suffered in with his father. He has to remind himself, sharply, with a mental slap to the face, that he isn’t here with his father. He’s here with Hannibal. 

Which is better.

_It’s better._

He does not miss his father.

For the first time, Will encounters moments where he has nothing to do. No homework to grade, no murder to dwell upon, no nightmares to enter (for now). He sits on the floor, head against the wall, and breathes. There are no chairs, no sofa. Just moldy wood and windows that need to be cleaned. Hannibal bought groceries, plates, sheets and a comforter an hour away in the city, and nothing else. Will doesn’t want to sit on the single bed upstairs, seemingly marked as a necessity just as the oven and air conditioning. It would feel too cozy, too normal.

He can hear the creaking of floorboards in the kitchen, two rooms away. A bump of plates. The sound of a bag tearing. He can only guess what Hannibal will make with the abundance of fresh produce and tender meat that sits somewhere, out of Will’s sight.

With reluctance, he hefts himself up, setting a hand on the windowsill above him and leaning against the wall again. His throat feels dry. A canyon running through his body. He thinks it will take him a while to get used to living with another person, as it would if he were living with anyone— even if it wasn’t a bedraggled man with sharp cheekbones, a smug smile, and a proclivity for eating people. The prospect makes something in his stomach begin to smart.

One week of allergic reactions from thigh-high grass and overly-sweet peaches. One week of tension, of leaky faucets and classical music tumbling out of a tinny phone speaker. 

The morning throbs with warmth from the rising sun, and Will is apprehensive to get out of bed, lest he wake the creature that slumbers next to him. Usually Hannibal has woken up and made his side of the bed by the crack of dawn, leaving Will to snooze until either his brain or his bladder rouses him. Will doesn’t turn or twist to look, not yet, but he can hear gentle breathing. It is utterly unreal— rasping, peaceful breaths are not what one associates with creatures of death. Not usually. 

He feels no bitterness in that Hannibal, through sleeping in, has not made some lavish breakfast as he did the days previous. He does, however, taste something sour in the back of the throat, knowing he can’t return the gesture. He’d rather leave Hannibal wanting than present him with something lackluster.

Will eventually pulls himself up on one hand, and twists to glance at the figure beside him. Graying, sandy hair splays across Hannibal’s pillow. It’s grown long, he notices, now. Long enough to be pulled up by a hairband. Long enough to be easily tugged upon. Movement curls itself in his throat, flutters in his fingers.

They have a couch, now. Now that they’ve become used to the scent of wildflowers and the heady breeze that blesses them every now and then, ruffling Will’s hair, pressing down the grass again and again. There is a reluctance to leave the place. It may fade, he thinks, as many things do when their value lies in their newness. But for now, they stay in the house. 

Will sidles over to said couch, soft and lush and out of place in such an antique setting. On it sits a ravine of dark amidst a room that filters in light from the sun. Will sets his lukewarm tea on the ground, as they still lack a coffee table, and slips down to sit next to Hannibal, whose eyes never even glance at him— too focused on the screen in his lap. Pressing his chin to Hannibal’s shoulder, Will peers at the screen, and then regrets it. 

“You must be providing ninety-percent of her ad revenue, by now.” He mumbles into Hannibal’s sweater. Hannibal’s lip curls, whether in a sneer or a smirk Will cannot tell. 

He squints reluctantly back at the article on the webpage, crassly titled in bold, capital letters: _“SECOND WOMAN FOUND SKINNED IN VIRGINIA RIVER… THE WORK OF BUFFALO BILL?”_

“Freddie never was the best at naming them.” Hannibal notes absentmindedly, his hand finding Will’s scalp.

“Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as _Hannibal the Cannibal,_ does it?” Will says, chin still pressed against Hannibal’s clavicle. Hannibal frowns, and scrolls down the page. 

The words begin to blur.

_Bodies found skinned in Virginia Rivers…_

_A two-headed lamb, with a moth in its throat…_

Sweet is the air that feeds the lungs of those who mourn.

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted. Title from We Will Commit Wolf Murder by Of Montreal. Opening quote from Amy Lowell's _The Fruit Garden Path_.  
> Listen to my playlist for them [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0oYmBjtrvAemBDeZFvoron)


End file.
